


You Wanna Go to Heaven [But You're Human Tonight]

by archetypically, spacebrock



Series: Novenom [Yes Some Venom] [1]
Category: Constantine (2005), Constantine (Comic), Nova (Comics), Venom (Comics), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Constantine (2005) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Supernatural Elements, good nite, what a combo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29248602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archetypically/pseuds/archetypically, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebrock/pseuds/spacebrock
Summary: Rich Rider is a half-angel trying to make a broken system fix itself. Eddie Brock is a monster-hunter with the capacity to See the evils that walk the earth. Together, they're...mostly trying to save the world.But in the process, you never know what else might be saved.Or lost.Based heavily off the Constantine film & the show Supernatural...what can we say.other than you're welcome. :DD [and thank you to darling Archetypically for doing this with meee]ENJOY.
Relationships: Eddie Brock/Richard Rider
Series: Novenom [Yes Some Venom] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147748
Kudos: 4





	1. Intro to Neo-Catholicism

For at least the tenth time in as many minutes, Rich Rider exhales a long sigh.

He’s not mortal, so things like  _ minutes _ don’t usually register on his radar, but whenever he’s in one of  _ these _ meetings? He totally understands. He understands how long a minute can stretch, how it can feel like what his human half might regard as an eternity; that’s the power that one of Joe’s self-important speeches about how much (read: how  _ little _ ) he’s accomplished on his watches can hold. Kind of incredible, Rich thinks.

Or he  _ would _ think, if anything other than how much he wants to jump out of his skin would stick in his mind for more than three seconds.  _ Seconds _ ; yeah, he’s feeling  _ those _ pretty acutely, too.

The fire in the library’s hearth, the one by which this whole group is gathered, is burning on its last embers, cracking as it goes, mingling with the steady pattering of rain against the window. Joe’s voice, droning on and on, has faded to somewhere far in the background. Until —

“Rich?”

Sometimes, when he takes to the air, he jerks to a stop for a moment, high in the clouds, just before letting himself have the freefall; for a moment, his heart jumps into his throat and his stomach swoops, and it all comes with a thrill like nothing else. That’s the closest he comes to feeling actually  _ alive _ , that jerk of a kick right before gravity kicks in. It’s a similar kind of kick that jerks his thoughts back to the present now — only it’s full of a lot less  _ pleasant  _ and a lot more  _ dread _ .

“Rich? What do you think?”

Apart from the rain (falling harder now) and the slowly dying fire, the room is silent; he doesn’t need enhanced hearing for the scuff of his boots against the floor as he shifts his feet to seem  _ loud _ . Ten pairs of eyes are on him, only him, watching and waiting.

From outside, there’s a crack of thunder.

“You  _ really _ wanna know what I think, Joe?” When he finally speaks, his voice is colder than the night air they’re taking refuge from. Before he’s aware of it, he finds his feet taking steps forward. “I think ten people were found murdered in one neighbhorhood in Queens over the past two weeks alone, and I think it was our job to save them. But we  _ failed _ at that job when we knew exactly what had a hand in killing them and we didn’t lift a finger.”

From beside Joe, Sara, who’s about equally as irritating, interjects, “The balance —”

“ _ Screw _ the balance.” Rich is practically in Joe’s face now, practically  _ spitting _ those words in Joe’s face. The human half of his blood is boiling under the human half of his skin. “These are people’s  _ lives _ . Aren’t we supposed to care about that more than allowing some demon to have a fucking  _ free-for-all  _ just because you don’t wanna piss off Lucifer?”

The entire room gasps in unison; he ignores all of it to press on. “I’m not gonna do nothing for the sake of rules that the other side clearly isn’t following.  _ Fuck _ that. I’m here for a reason, and it’s about time everyone else in this room figured that out, too.”

Just then, something crackles like a radio coming to life on the periphery of his awareness. A voice, singing, the notes just a bit out of tune, and then… words.

_ “JUST CALL ME ANGEL, OF THE MORNING, ANGEL……” _

For at least the  _ eleventh _ time in recent memory, Rich huffs out a sigh, but this time, he rolls his eyes a little, too, just for good measure. Even so — he feels that thing he feels in the sky sometimes: heart lifting, stomach swooping just before the fall. That thing… that thing that makes him think sometimes that maybe, just maybe, he really  _ is _ alive.

He’s just glad to have an excuse to leave the horrible facsimile of eternity that exists in this stupid room. That’s all.

“Look, I gotta go.” Before the words are even fully out of his mouth, he’s already turned on his heel and retrieving his coat from the rack. “Got work to do.” 

_ You know, that thing we’re  _ **_all_ ** _ supposed to be doing _ , sits on the tip of his tongue, just waiting,  _ begging _ to be said, but at the very last second, he manages to suppress the impulse — because after his little display just now? That’s probably not going to help anything. Instead, he fixes the best approximation of a smile he can manage at this moment onto his face, and: “It’s been fun, everyone. Just  _ love _ our little talks. Honestly.”

If any of them pick up on the fact that his voice is positively dripping with the sarcasm he can’t quite manage to hold back, Rich will never know; before he can hear any reaction, he’s gone in a literal flash.


	2. Getting Attention 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter the bozo

Outside, the cold and wet night is nothing short of silent. There were distant flickers of passing cars; the striking of matches along the rough strip of the freeway. Like the cigarette catching on the click of his lighter, they burn briefly and smoke for hours after. Humidity and Hell were like that - smoldering, lingering sensations that curls up; feline, in the lungs.

As Eddie stood on the overpass, surveying the sleepy city in the hours just before dawn, he had the distinct feeling he isn’t alone. Then again, when you saw things, or - more aptly, when you Saw things - 

You really never were.

Picking his head up, he blew smoke into the night like a burnt offering to some long-forgotten entity of old. Let the highway be the altar upon which he blah blah blah. He didn’t actually care - 

Eddie Brock had given up caring a long, long time ago.

Or so he told himself.

Why else would he keep at it, doing what he did? Defending innocents from the forces of darkness - and those of light, when necessary. The world isn’t some celestial chessboard for the beings above and below to move as they saw fit. He refuses his role as a pawn, taking up the sentinel position instead. He is a castle; a rook, a veritable fortress in which there would be no trespass. 

Unless he invites somebody in.

Taking in another breath, Eddie flicks the cigarette off the side of the open overpass, and, rocking back on the soles of his feet, slips his hands into his pockets. The rainy air continues to shift around him as he swung upright, then sang - like it is a hymn and he is the last person in an empty church looking for salvation - 

Or a drunk at a baseball game bellowing along to the theme song.

Sports arenas and cathedrals, the only difference is stains glass and the thing you worshiped, he figured.

“JUST CALL ME ANGEL, OF THE MORNING, ANGEL!”

“Shut up!” Someone shouts down the street, and Eddie laughed, spreading his arms, turning in place on his precarious perch.

“Juuuuuuuuust touch my cheek before you leave me, BABY--!”

“You know that’s not how this works, right?” Eddie’s mouth snapps shut as he straightens upright, caught in the act - just as he’d planned. Blue eyes blink roundly, faced with a much brighter, gentler pair. 

Even in the mist, his unlikely, reluctant companion is beautiful. Rumpled; just enough, in the way a good celebrity looks during a photoshoot. All that is missing is the sun in those dark curls; the sand under his arms from where he’d laid back on the beach. And while he didn’t have them out at present, somewhere, there were wings - Eddie can hear them rustling, disgruntled, annoyed. Maybe it is the weather, but - 

More likely, him. 

Eddie knew he had that effect on people.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Eddie inquires pleasantly, smile curling smugly at either corner of his mouth. Rolling his eyes, Rich Rider [what a name] crosses his arms and turns away, glancing up and down the street before whispering back:

“Yeah - because you know my routine. It’s creepy, Eddie. Creepy that you know my work schedule.”

“I don’t bother you on the clock,” Eddie offered, still standing on the lip of the bridge. Rich glances at him - then peers over the side, looking down at traffic streaking by below; smudges of indigo and charcoal on a blue-black road splashed with yellow lines. One wrong move, and Eddie’d fall -

Which is how his life seems to be going anyway, but…

“Small miracles,” Rich remarks sardonically, prying himself away from the sight before holding up a hand. “Wanna come down and talk about it?”

“What’s to talk about?” Eddie asked, taking a wobbly step to the side, grinning broadly when Rich tenss and followed. 

“Whatever’s bothering you,” Rich says dryly. “Step onto the sidewalk --”

“And into your office? Oh wait, you don’t keep one,” Eddie pinwheels his arms, and Rich glares at him, exasperated. “Why do you insist on being everybody’s guardian angel, huh? Guilty conscience?”

“You know, you make it really hard for people to get--” Rich seizes his forearm and tugs him back to the street. Eddie stumbles, nearly crashing into him, and finds himself still held by the taller man, clashing in the darkening drizzle. “Close to you,” Rich finishes, one brow raised. Eddie gazes up at him, then remembers to blink, chuckling faintly. “You smell like cigarettes,” Rich presses on, frowning a little as he pulls back to inspect Eddie. “You should really quit smoking.”

“Gimme something better than cigarettes and we’ll talk,” Eddie counters - and Rich huffed, not quite a laugh, but close. 

“Just - tell me what you need.”

You, Eddie doesn’t say, unbidden and sudden. The thought rears up like a corners animal; hissing and swiping. Possessive. It’s just you, Richard.

“...there’s a Half-Breed down in soho that’s giving me the run-around,” Eddie says finally, once he remembers staring and telepathically broadcasting his sentiments got nobody anywhere, “I thought you might have an opening in your schedule to help a guy out.” 

“An opening you knew about,” Rich points out ruefully - and Eddie grins from ear to stuck-out ear. There is a rustle, and suddenly - 

A wing of whitish-gray with brushes of gold arcs over the two of them, feathers fanning. The deluge let up, then, and Eddie glances up at the canopy of down protectively hovering over him. 

“You know all about me,” Rich says quietly, “but not how to take care of yourself. Why is that?” Eddie didn’t answer, instead lifting a hand to brush a couple of pinfeathers. Rich shivered. “Come on,” he insisted, motioning with his head. “Down the road. There’s a cafe. We’ll eat and talk.”

“Magic words, handsome,” Eddie comments, hand dropping back to his side. “Lead the way.”


	3. First Period: Monster Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I'm using academic terminology either. Get schooled, son.

When Eddie met Rich the first time, admittedly, he hadn’t been at his best. Or on his best behavior. Or anything, really, he’d been free-wheeling with a gun full of silver bullets, a bucket of holy water, and a hellbent need to see something through to the end.

Something had been disturbing the occupants of Chinatown for a while - not one of their own, a misplaced, lost soul that hadn’t been received by Heaven or Hell. Whatever bargain had been made, they’d missed one, and as a result, the creature - he’d determined it was something of an undead, unable to leave its decaying flesh prison for a better world. 

Or at least, closure.

Here’s how it all went down.

It’s an ugly Summer, because Summer in the city - well, there was a whole song about it, wasn’t there? It’s ugly, gritty, sweltering,  _ smelly  _ as Hell [albeit not quite], and Eddie wants nothing more than to crawl off to some seaside resort and squander all the rest of his money on something fruity, mixed, and refreshing. Let Heaven and Hell continue tearing themselves apart, it’s not any of his business - 

Until they start interfering in his world. 

Pei’s Place had been experiencing significant disruption following the unearthing of some...thing during renovations; a restless and forgotten entity that stalked; stumbling, through the kitchens nightly in search of - they aren’t really sure what. On the brink of closing, desperate for a bailout, Pei reached out to the one person they knew could make a difference - 

The same stupid fuck who made a point of ordering the hottest dish on the menu every Tuesday and Thursday “just so he could feel something”.

“I know you’re not for hire,” Pei begged, “but please - if you could just come by...see what you can do - free food, for life. I promise.”

Well,  _ how _ , praytell, can Eddie pass up an opportunity like  _ that? _ Hunan was on the line, and, well - so was humanity. Or something.

So that’s why he stood in the middle of an alleyway, surveying the space between - and it  _ is  _ a Between, he can tell that much - buildings. There’s a shimmering mist, an unholy shrieking and skittering, and a headache just waiting to happen.

Research wrested from the hands of reluctant records-keepers indicates that, upon occasion, certain souls get lost in the bureaucratic shuffle between Heaven and Hell. Earth serves as well as any other form of Limbo, except that it  _ doesn’t _ . Death is too definitive, too final - or it’s supposed to be. If the paperwork’s not clear, just seat them like they’re in  _ Beetlejuice  _ to await processing.

A soul without purpose, or aim, or goal is a dangerous thing indeed. And now - Mr. Bradley, or whoever he so identifies at-present - is all the worse for it. 

August beat everyone into the submission of ACs and indoors wherever possible, so with the exception of the homeless person he slips $20 to [“get outta here, Maria”], there’s no one in the alleyway save himself. And he does want to save himself, for the sake of spicy dishes and the opportunity to keep having them.

The less jaded part of himself, however much he tries to crush it under the heel of his boot or the burning twist of a beheaded cigarette, still hopes that somehow, they’re able to effectively lay this matter to rest. He doesn’t want to believe there’s anything to be optimistic about. That’s how people got careless. And hurt. 

He hears the shift in the atmosphere and simultaneously mirrors the brush of bristling air with a steadiness in his feet. The soles stick to the ground; the alleyway all but on fire from the heat of the merciless sun. Clanging back and forth between the dumpster and Pei’s Place was a graying heap of skin and bone that makes Eddie think of a balled-up napkin. One of those nasty gas station ones, rolling around abandoned lots, waiting to dissolve.

The pain emanating off this thing is palpable. He can  _ Feel it _ as much as he can See it, the rolling waves of grief and despair salty. Forceful. It - he - rocks back and forth, back and forth, skeletal limbs twitching. Eddie swallows, and, against his better judgment [or his better heart] untucks the pistol from under his jacket at the back, cocking it over his forearm as he steps further into the semi-known. Not unknown. 

Like...he’s done the research. This should be case open and shut.

“Okay, Mr. Bradley,” he calls out softly, “I know you’re lost and confused right now, but I’m here to help, a’right?” The thing continues to rock and roll, with a lot less AC/DC and way more Ozzy Osbourne, making horrible, chittering-weeping sounds that make his skin crawl. Sweat follows; dropping like spiders on thread down the back of his wrinkled white shirt; the sleeves hauled up and wards on full display. The tattoos glow a little the closer he comes, and Eddie knows the brighter they get, the more guarded he is - 

And the more dangerous the situation. 

“Why won’t anyone come for me?” The human voice is  _ wrong _ in a way Eddie can’t describe. It’s almost as if the breath meant to go out on a word is actually being sucked back in, rattling. “Why won’t anyone come for  _ meee _ ?”

The whining wail drags nails down an invisible chalkboard, and Eddie winces; cringing, gritting his teeth as he paces ever-closer. The thing tenses, ceasing its movements, as he speaks to it - him - again:

“It’s okay. We’re gonna resolve this. Just need you to go to sleep for a while.”  _ Forever _ . “They’ll come and getcha. It’s not on-purpose.” Okay, he doesn’t know that for sure. He doesn’t know anything for sure, just - that he has to try and protect Pei’s Place.

Two people are already dead. And technically, so’s this guy.

When it moves, picking up its head, raising its face toward the sun, half of it’s still “human” - a little more flesh-tone, a bright brown eye, a frightened expression.

“What am I?” it cries. “What  **_am I_ ** ?” 

And suddenly, Eddie feels the loss smack into him like a freight train. His fingers loosen a little bit on the gun, and, working his jaw, he murmurs - 

“I don’t know.” He swallows, blinking away uncertain dampness. His tears or Bradley’s, he isn’t sure. “This...shoulda never happened to you, man. I’m sorry.”

“Hungry,” Mr. Bradley says weakly. He’s the victim of some crime, Eddie figures - he’d read up on his disappearance, and all he knows is that as of three years ago, his last known whereabouts had been a laundromat. How he’d wound up inside a wall, why half of him was still humanoid - he didn’t know that either. Didn’t know much about the life of an accountant lost to the jungle of iron and steel.

Just another victim abandoned by either side. A lost child in the eyes of God.

“I know,” Eddie says again, tiredly. “I know, but we can’t have you eating people anymore. You don’t wanna eat people, do you?” Two line cooks down for the count. Bradley shudders, swaying to his feet - and Eddie feels iciness sweep through him despite the heat of the day.

Bradley rises. And rises. And rises, till he’s so tall and many-limbed; many,  _ many  _ arms unfurling from where he’d been balled up on the ground - that he damn near blots out the sun. That inhuman combination of body and face  _ bellows,  _ greenish spittle flying.

“ **_HUNGRY_ ** ,” he shouts, and shakes the pigeons off the nearby gutters for good; cooing frantically. Eddie feels his heart take flight with them and fires, instinctive and instant, the pentagram on the back of his prominent shooting hand igniting to enhance the weapon, but - 

The bullet ricochets somewhere off of Bradley’s chest and nearly strikes him instead. Staggering back, he fires another shot - misses completely. The wards are  _ burning  _ him now, as if trying to seal him to the pavement. It’s hot wax on his skin and Eddie grits his teeth as the thing formerly known as Mr. Aaron Bradley scurries sideways up the side of Pei’s and lunges for him - 

If there’s ever a time he needed a miracle, it’s right  _ fucking then _ .

And he gets one.

Shockingly enough, Eddie Brock gets a fucking miracle. 

There is a bright flash of blue-white light as someone  _ rams  _ their palm through the center of the creature’s chest and sends the monstrous pieces of him scattering on to oblivion. All that’s left is a gleaming soul, frightened and shaken, gripped in a firm hand. 

A hand, Eddie notices - from flat on his ass on the alleyway pavement - is attached to a tall man with dark curls rumpled by the breeze, in a tan coat that sweeps around his ankles, a shirt and tie. Eyes like cornflowers on fire from within; twin starbursts that shine in his own glowing hues. And grayish wings still so bright it hurts to look at them directly - no, that’s the sun - it’s like  _ he’s the sun or a star itself _ \- 

A Half-Breed angel. One of the border agents.

“He’s right,” the almost-angel says gently, his voice tired. Filled with disappointment. “This should’ve never happened to you. But you’re free now.”  _ Yeah and not a moment too fucking soon, _ Eddie feels like saying, but chooses not to - mostly because his mouth is still hanging open at the sight. Bradley grips the angel’s arm, eyes tearful.

“ _...thank you _ …”

“Don’t mention it,” says Eddie’s rescuer - and, with a gentle nudge, sends the spirit sailing away, drifting toward the split Eddie briefly Sees opening where the previous gash had been. The gates of the In-Between close, and the Half-Breed turns, wings fanning back; unseen, beneath his clothes or...however it works, Eddie still hasn’t quite figured that out yet.

“...You were trying to save him,” his rescuer remarks oddly. Eddie blinks, then laughs, though he’s not entirely sure why. 

“‘Course I was. S’what I do. I only shoot when I have to.” A hand is offered, and Eddie takes it, unflinching, as he rises to his feet with the other’s help. “...Eddie, I--”

“Brock, I know, we hear a lot about you,” his blue-eyed hero says, and Eddie’s brows shoot skyward, flummoxed. 

“...Do I get to know your name or are you just going to hold me closer, tiny dancer?” Flushing a little, the other man lets go, clearing his throat. 

“...Rich. Sorry. Hey.”

“Hey,” Eddie echoes, bemused. “Thanks for the help back there. Don’t usually get the hands-on action deliverable from Heaven.” Rich’s smile flickers, and Eddie relishes the sight of it, his gaze softening. Now that the danger’s passed, he feels...not great, admittedly, but. Better. Nice.

It’s nice. Rich is nice. Oh, he’s dizzy.

“Whoa,” Rich catches him beneath the arms with a startled huff, blinking. “You need hydration.”

“Maybe you just make me weak in the knees.” Eddie’d be embarrassed, typically - downright mortified, but - he can’t help thinking that this isn’t so bad. “Can I interest you in a cup of coffee?”

“Water first,” Rich says, and  _ that’s  _ the Heaven Eddie knows and groans about .All those  _ rules _ . Even the ones that make sense are irritating.

“Water first, coffee after.”

It’s the memory that’s on his mind as they enter that same cafe together, many months later on a rainier, colder night - partners in unexpected non-crime.

And despite the weather, Eddie is strangely no less warm in the company of angels. Or at least, one in particular.


	4. An Angelic Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't go to plan, but that's alright.

It’s a spell that goes haywire, that’s all it is.

One minute, Eddie’s situated dead-center of the floor, surrounded by rock salt, rose petals, crystals, and etched sigils - the next, Richard was standing before him, looking slightly perplexed, in a pair of gray sweats and a white v-neck, his dark curls slightly-rumpled from the journey.

_ You are not what I called for, _ Eddie feels like saying - but that wasn’t necessarily true. The spell he’d been working on was meant to solve the case for him, but clearly, the guidelines were muddled somewhere along the way. As with most magic, it was unpredictable as it was unprecedented - so when Richard shows up, bemused and slightly-annoyed [maybe more than slightly], Eddie can’t help but offer an apologetic grimace, hand lifting from the center of the circle he’d created - right between Rich’s feet.

“I was in the middle of a  _ very  _ important meeting,” Rich informs him dryly - and Eddie is torn between profusely apologizing and giving Rich a judgmental once-over for his attire. He elects for the former, hastily shifting aside some of the sand and salt so Rich can walk freely out of the line of metaphysical fire. 

“I am so -  _ so  _ terribly sorry about that, I can set up a new circle and send you back where y’were…” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Rich remarks dryly, sidestepping out of the summoning charm with a frown. Eddie looks around his apartment - littered with scattered debris and discarded leads, strings tied between things and no pattern even starting to form whatsoever, but - he’s not going to say sorry for  _ that _ , because  _ obviously  _ if Rich was going to come by, he would’ve cleaned, but this isn’t planned, and all he can do is hop to his feet alongside the angel - who looks so very out-of-place amidst all the peeling walls and distressed floors.

Much too beautiful for any of Eddie or his ilk.

“How can I help?” Blue eyes turn his way and for a moment, Eddie’s lost to them again - sapphires have a way of stopping him cold. Gems with their own magic imbued. Realizing his mouth is open, Eddie remembers to shut it, the petals and incense still filtering around them in the air. Rich raises a brow, and Eddie notes, belatedly, the poor half-angel probably expects  _ some  _ kind of answer.

“I--d’ya wanna help me solve this mystery? I’m not makin’ any headway. Was tryin’ to summon…”  _ Heart’s desire.  _ His heart’s desire had been that he wanted to solve this fucking  _ riddle  _ of a crime spree, but - Rich had shown up instead. That - didn’t mean anything though. Probably got one of the ingredients wrong. “...answers,” Eddie stalls out slowly, looking Rich over once more. “Just - answers.”

The Look Rich casts his way says  _ I don’t believe you  _ but he chooses not to voice that, delicately moving around more refuse on the floor to head toward the epicenter of Eddie’s particular disaster. The chaos of his formations; this lopsided web he’s spinning, Rich walks right into it with the intention to untangle.

And to their credit, they try - they make headway, or - so they seem. Some things point to a disgruntled kappa, others to a sadistic kelpie. There’s animalistic prints to rifle over, there’s arguments to be made about the involvement of Heaven or Hell, and there’s subtle jibes, jabs, or taunts thrown about, frustration mounting as Rich finally declares,

“It’s - not  _ about  _ the label of the beast--” to which Eddie retorts:

“If not that, how do we fight it, huh?”

“Maybe - maybe we don’t have to fight it,” Rich suggests, turning his way. “I mean - why is it always fighting? Isn’t there another resolution to all of this? I have to - I  _ want  _ to believe that there is.” Eddie scoffs and shakes his head, and something in the gesture makes Rich’s blood  _ boil _ \- already amped-up from the jet fuel coffee Eddie charitably bestowed upon him, adrenaline and irritation rushing through his system likewise. 

“Then you’re more naive than I thought,” Eddie says snidely - and Rich sets his jaw, steps into Eddie’s space, and forces him to take a hopping step over a lit candle and back toward the living-room wall. “Hey--!”

“It’s not naive to hope for peace,” Rich informs him in a low voice, “isn’t that what you’re after, too? Wouldn’t you  _ like  _ to  **rest** for a change, Edward?” The full name gets him the look he’s hoping for - deep down, that spark of defiance, that  _ wake-up  _ from the jaded mire. Rich doesn’t know fully why he does it, he just knows that he has to do it - he has to get that rise out of him, has to ensure he’s awake. When he’s awake, Eddie’s more than a halfway decent ally - he’s…

Before the thought can finish, Eddie’s raspy voice ripples in the air between them: “it’s really  _ hot _ , how much you  **_care_ ** .” Rich’s hand comes up before he can even stop himself, and next thing he knows, he’s shoving Eddie up against that wall directly, his hand splayed at the base of his throat, thumb curving over his collarbone. Eddie grunts as his back finds the wall, eyes fluttering - before they go half-lidded with a shit-eating grin, a spark of electricity running down Rich’s arm from the  _ force  _ of it all, the  _ light _ , Eddie’s brows raising. Rich closes the distance between them, about to tell him off, to say there’s days for fighting and days for making peace, but Eddie continues to throw him off-kilter. There’s no flight pattern. There’s no words, nothing comes to mind, especially not after - 

“Oh,” Eddie whispers, chuckling, “so we’re doing  _ this  _ now.” 

Rich wants to ask him what  _ this _ is, but - impulse overrides any sort of duty. It’s hot, muggy, the breath they share, in the sandalwood-rose-smoke room, musk and pent-up emotion. His hand on Eddie’s chest slides higher across the curve of his throat till it finds the scruff of his cheek [and Eddie  _ lets him _ ; doesn’t shy away, if anything, his smile only grows], and Rich - 

Falls.

Just a  _ little,  _ then catches himself against Eddie’s lips as he in turn catches Eddie against the wall. Their mouths meet and the current charge erupts, sending shudders through them. Rich stifles a moan, the way their bodies connect, flush and grinding, and suddenly,  _ suddenly  _ he’s relieved to be in sweatpants and a lightweight shirt, but even that - that feels like  _ too much  _ and  **not enough** all of a sudden - 

Especially as, unthinking, he curls his hand around behind Eddie’s ass and hauls him up off the floor. It costs ihm nothing; Eddie’s practically air to him, half-breed strength in full effect as he breaks to breathe, their noses brushing. Rich’s tongue flits across Eddie’s bottom lip, asking for more, and Eddie mutters, “yeah, you know, I actually - really, really love...how much you care --” in full sincerity. It’s so sweet he almost laughs, but instead manages to temper it with just a huff. 

Then Eddie’s arms are winding around his neck, and his legs around Rich’s middle, and the wall behind them is cracking, threatening to splinter. Rich has half a mind to say something about that, too, but it’s impossible to stop once he’s gotten started. 

And then Eddie’s hands bury themselves in his hair and humming static shocks across his scalp. He  _ moans  _ into that full, pink mouth and rolls his shoulders, friction to friction, his lap begging for release.

He’d be lying, and lying would be sinful, to say he hadn’t...considered - but never in a million years, after all, there was - no connection. Just...carnal. There couldn’t be more than that…

It’s a distant reminder as Rich pulls himself away, nose nudging Eddie’s own, wheedling for more affection. Eddie’s hands stop tugging on his curls long enough to scrabble for his shirt instead, chanting under his breath, “off, off, off” to which Rich - giggles, in spite of himself.

It’s - necessary. It’ll clear their heads. It’ll get this out of their system. And a million other little arguments, he figures, as he follows through, squirming out of his shirt before dipping back in to kiss Eddie,  _ again _ \- 

“Bedroom,” Eddie breathes, and Rich agrees - in mere moments, they’re  _ there _ , though he hardly remembers moving, maybe it’s just - angelic. The whole thing’s too lustful to be anything but earthly, and yet - 

His hand snakes up Eddie’s back, rakes through dark wards, and they don’t ignite - red lines follow his nails as Eddie twists beneath him on the bed, arching with a desperate cry. “ _ Nightstand _ \--!” and he gets it. Some part of him already knew, just as he knew what he’d find in the drawer. The necessary supplies. And handcuffs, which feel...slightly unnecessary, at least for now, but Rich can’t fault Eddie for whatever he’s into.

“...strawberry?” He asks mildly, shaking the little tube he finds with a knowing tilt of his brow. Eddie, practically panting beneath him, furrows his forehead. Okay, so - 

Not  _ fault _ . But  _ tease _ , certainly.

“Izzat a problem? You allergic?” Rich bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing and shakes his head. Eddie swats gently at his thighs, straddled, and snorts. “For fuck’s s--then shut up and don’t stop, you fucker.”

Rich finds himself smiling more than he has in  _ months _ , and he supposes he has Eddie to thank for that. He has ways of showing that thanks, too, that he figures might resonate better than just saying so.

Their connection is - a lot. There’s no argument, as he finds the soft heat of Eddie surrounding him, as Eddie rises to meet him, tonguing his mouth with sloppy desperation, as if Rich is the only thing he wants; more than air, more than water - and Rich drowns with him, burning, finding solid ground beneath his hands, the thrumming magma of Eddie’s chest under his palms. It blazes between them; their rhythm frantic [if his hand is on Eddie’s hip  _ just so _ , he speeds up, and  _ oh _ , that feeling - fast and slow and never wanting it to end all at once], practically unhinged - 

Until one of Eddie’s hands and all those many bracelets on his wrists  _ rushes  _ between his shoulder-blades and Rich - 

Rich short-circuits; vision going white, wings  _ bursting  _ out of his back, feathery appendages ricocheting pictures off the walls, lamps off nightstands, God only knows what else, but he - 

He’s never felt  _ anything  _ like that, never lets anyone touch his wings, never lets - anyone get that close, and his mouth falls open in a shocked cry as he comes  **_hard_ ** , light  _ exploding _ in the apartment as - 

As it all powers down, quite abruptly. Rich arcs over another wave of pleasure as he bows inward, Eddie’s nails dragging white-hot lines down his spine. Downy feathers shudder and twitch, heat spills between them, and Rich drops like a stone, falling almost all the way. 

Eddie kisses him again, and Rich dazedly meets the motion as he pulls away once he can breathe again. The only light in the darkness now is a tossup between Eddie’s crinkle-lined eyes or the flickering candles, somehow unperturbed in the wake of these passions. 

“...holy shit. Quite literally,” Eddie cracks as a joke once he seems able to speak again. Rich nods in slow agreement, eyes fluttering shut as his wings tuck themselves almost sheepishly away again; down shuffling. Eddie kisses every inch of Rich’s face he can reach and the half-angel melts beneath the touches, just a little.

“Y’good…?” Eddie; asking after him. “After uh. All that…”

“Sorry,” Rich croaks softly, “about your um - your place, I can...fix…” No he can’t. He knows he can’t. He fucked the power-grid. Well, actually, he fucked th--never mind. His face darkens and he withdraws slowly with a sigh, looking around for his discarded clothing.

“...s’all good,” Eddie offers, reaching over to the cigarettes miraculously still on his nightstand - even if the lamp lays shattered on the floor. Rich winces apologetically. “Hey - it’s...it was nice, alright? You uh--” Eddie shakes the carton at him. “You want? Or - I can make more coffee--”

“I should...get back,” Rich offers awkwardly; deflecting. His reality shows won’t watch themselves, right? And - 

Some things are allowed. As long as there’s no connection. That’s what’s so forbidden in the eyes of - well, anyone. He’s got duties, after all. Rich squirms back into his shirt and exhales slowly, hand raking through his hair. The ghost of Eddie’s grip on his locks sends a refreshed shiver down his spine. 

“...well - come again,” Eddie offers, then silently shuts his eyes - no doubt hoping the bed will somehow devour him whole. Rich doesn’t look back as he heads for the door - he can’t bear to. If he looks back, he might stay. And then he’ll go all the way down. 

It’s a risk he assesses with pain as he murmurs, “I’ll see you around.” 

The roses in the room ripple again as with a beat of his wings, the half-breed takes flight, leaving behind a man whose world’s been rocked in more ways than one - 

As he’s just given himself a _ nother _ mystery, one Eddie isn’t sure he ever wants to solve.


End file.
